


When You Make the Intern Cry

by paperface



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo and Thorin met in college, Frodo is a terrible intern, He just cannot bake, M/M, Mamabear Bilbo to the rescue, Messy college fling ended badly, Second chance as adults, Thorin makes him cry, Thorin the grumpy baker, but he tries, not on purpose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 08:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7610563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperface/pseuds/paperface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dwalin answered the phone with a grunt.<br/>"Help," Thorin said.<br/>"What?"<br/>Thorin closed his eyes. "I made the intern cry."<br/>Silence. Then, "Does he have a yelp account?"<br/>"Jesus," Thorin said and hung up the phone. </p><p>In which Thorin owns a bakery and is a very grumpy boss and Frodo is a miserable intern who can’t bake and Bilbo doesn’t accept any of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Make the Intern Cry

It’s not like he meant to make the intern cry.

Thinking it back, Thorin couldn’t understand what could have possibly made Frodo Underhill cry. Really, it wasn’t Thorin at all but poor timing.

“Between my doctor’s appointment and transportation, I won’t be able to make it,” Frodo had finished saying before he got off. Stupid Balin rules meant Thorin only had the intern from nine in the morning to four in the afternoon.

“Alright.” Thorin closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. They were talking about the big catering event on Sunday. Thorin was already dreading it because the only thing he hated more than baking was Thranduil. Catering that twerp’s son’s birthday was going to be hell. Thranduil had already requested for all the food to be vegan and gluten free and sugar-free. “I’m a baker,” Thorin had shouted into the phone, and Thranduil had simply tittered before hanging up the phone.

“Mr. Durin?” Frodo asked hesitantly.

Thorin opened his eyes. Frodo was fourteen, too young for “real” internships, but perfectly eligible for trade internships. He was small for his age, pale with curly black hair and blue eyes. Nice kid, over all, a little tentative and quiet around people he didn’t know. Or like, perhaps. Thorin hadn’t known the boy could actually speak until his friends came in one day and Frodo was yammering, words spilling out of him, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Let’s try, in the future, to stay committed when you say you’re committed.” Balin would have liked that. He stressed, multiple times, to Thorin that Thorin was to pass on life lessons to Frodo. _And a good work ethic_ , Balin had said, steely eyes set on Thorin. “We were counting on your for help.”

Frodo was quiet, his head tilted down.

Huh. Thorin glanced around the empty bakery, hoping something could give him a sign of what was happening. What was Frodo doing?

Ding. The oven went off in the back. Frodo had finished the last of the dessert pastries.

“I’ll get that,” Thorin said, grateful for the distraction. He glanced back a couple of times, at Frodo who still had his head tilted to the ground. Weird.

Thorin yawned. The Fundin bakery was small. Balin had intended it to be a bookstore café type of thing, but he'd abandoned that project once he got university tenure. _Good work ethic my ass_ , Thorin glowered, thinking of Balin drinking with his fellow philosophy professors. They were the worst, old men with wisdom for the ages, and they acted like a frat half the time. Thorin knew Gandalf smoked pot.

Even though the bakery never fulfilled Balin’s grand plan, it was still nice. There was a decent display case and counter out front with a couple of tables. The walls were a shade of green that became sickening after three o’clock. Fundin was located on a small street of Dale, with nice, old, beautifully built buildings. When things were slow, Thorin would stand by the entrance windows and glance at the architecture of the buildings surrounding them. He didn’t care that looked ridiculous with an apron on and long dark hair in a man-bun that made his nephews, little shits they were, chortle every time they saw him. He liked looking at the structure, the details, imagining the blueprints. That’s what brought Thorin peace.

Not baking. In the dark back room, Thorin grumbled to himself. The timer on the oven was flashing.

“Alright, alright.” He grabbed his mittens and open the oven. Maybe Frodo would be gone by the time he got back, and he could just set the pastries up then— “What. The. Fuck?"

Thorin let go of the tray and it clattered onto the counter. Footsteps echoed through the back room—Frodo had come running. Maybe he thought Thorin had set his beard on fire again.

“Oh.” Frodo squeaked when he looked at the tray, shrinking back.

A vein in Thorin’s forehead was pulsing. On the tray, there twenty-four steaming pastries, and on all of them, the dough crossing had come undone and the center jam had burnt.

“What the hell is this?” Thorin poked one pastry experimentally with a spatula. It sizzled on contact. “What the actual fuck is this?” If he’d heard Frodo’s whimper, he might have managed to cool himself down and act like a rational adult with a good work ethic. Thorin didn't realize his voice was growing louder and louder. “Why is it sizzling so much? Pastries shouldn’t sizzle—Christ, it’s like someone just slapped the dough down then threw acid on it—it looks like a duck penis, I can’t serve this. Frodo, what happened, I taught you how to do this properly, this is terrible, I didn't teach you this, I'm going to have to throw it all out, what a waste, God, why is it still bubbling—huh?”

Behind him Frodo had burst into tears. Shocked, Thorin dropped the spatula. He flinched as it made contact with one of the duck penises and sizzled. Frodo was practically sobbing into his hands, his curly head of hair bouncing up and down with his heaving shoulders. Before Thorin, wide-eyed and confused, could say something, Frodo turned around and ran out of the kitchen. A few seconds later, the ding of the little bell above the door sounded—Frodo had left.

“Shit,” Thorin said in the kitchen, with his hair in its ridiculous man-bun and wearing a pink apron he’d borrowed from Dís when he started working here and never gave back. He’d never felt more ridiculous in his life. Thorin really wished there was a building right now.

 

Dwalin answered the phone with a grunt.

Thorin cupped his hand over the receiver so the few patrons who’d straggled in at five wouldn’t hear him. The only phone in the bakery was an old-fashioned landline behind the display counter. Kíli had dropped Thorin’s cell phone in the bay during a prank gone wrong. “Help.”

“What?” Dwalin didn’t sound particularly concerned. “Is espresso-related? Your idiot nephews are supposed to handle the barista side of things.”

Thorin closed his eyes. Fundin was filled with the smell of slowly baking tarts and the light chatter of the customers. It was a nice day, Thorin should be happy. It was a good day to look at buildings. “I made the intern cry.” The duck penises were still in the trash, but they’d finally stopped sizzling.

Silence on Dwalin’s end, then, “Does he have a Yelp account? Glassdoor?”

“Jesus,” Thorin said then hung up the phone before Dwalin could recite the importance of online reviews.

That’s it, Thorin decided, putting his hands in his pockets under the apron. He’s done everything he could. Monday, Frodo will come in and they’ll act like nothing has happened and everything will be lovely. Really, it wasn't a big deal. Thorin hadn't done anything wrong.

 

Bilbo Baggins was seething. Frodo had come home from his internship with red eyes and a quavering voice that, once Bilbo questioned him, broke into unintelligible hysteria. _Duck penis_ , Bilbo had caught, and, _commitment_.

On the outside, Bilbo kept his calm. Frodo was a very intuitive boy and he often soaked up the emotions of those around him. The last thing Bilbo was going to do was pace around his kitchen and go off on this wannabe-Gordon-Ramsey poor-excuse-of-a-boss son-of-bitch that had made his fourteen year old nephew cry during a summer internship at a _bakery_. _And not even a good one_ , Bilbo thought, squaring his shoulders. He’d gotten espresso at Fundin’s once and it was terrible, so he stuck with Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Here,” Bilbo said when Frodo stopped shaking, sliding a cup of tea over. The first thing he’d done when Frodo came home in that state was put the kettle on. Frodo was a sensitive kid and since the accident, he’d become quick to break. They had a routine: tea, biscuits, nap. It always worked.

“Thanks, Uncle.” Frodo held the cup between his hands, one last shiver going down his back. “I just feel so bad—“

“Don’t feel bad,” Bilbo said sharply. “Your boss was rude and uncalled for and, to be frank, a little condescending. You are there to learn and how can you learn if someone’s shouting at you?"

“I feel terrible, I should have—"

“Nope, I won’t hear off it. Finish your tea, have a biscuit, take a nap then go over to Sam’s for dinner.”

Frodo frowned. “Why?"

“Because I am going to have words with your boss.”

“Uncle Bilbo, no, please no—“

“At-ta-ta. I am just going to stroll in and kindly explain that his work ethic is a terrible and he’s an awful role model for the impressionable youth.”

Frodo hung his head. There was no stopping Bilbo. “Fine.”

 

It was nine o’clock when Bilbo managed to get down to Fundin’s. When he walked Frodo to the Gamgee’s, they invited him for dinner as well, and it was rude to say no, besides Mrs. Gamgee did make some excellent peach cobbler, and over the course of a good meal, his wrath exponentially decreased (no doubt a plan cooked up between Sam and Frodo), but then Mrs. Gamgee asked Frodo how his day went and the temper flaired again.

Adults yelling at children. Bilbo shook his head as he walked down the cobblestrone street. The wooden sign with Fundin in a Gaelic script swung in the light breeze. Bilbo had half a mind to hit it, but he wasn’t nearly tall enough and physical violence had never been his thing.  
Fundin closed at nine, so it was empty when Bilbo thundered in, surprising Thorin who’d just let his two idiot nephews go and was planning on a lazy sweep, then locking up.

“What gives you the right to yell at children,” Bilbo started, but his tirade evaporated when he realized who was standing behind the counter. “Oh. You?”

“Bilbo?” Thorin set his broom against the wall. One hand went to his man-bun, fumbling with the hair-tie then pausing—would that be too obvious?

“I-I-I’m—“ Bilbo stammered. The wind was knocked out of him. Thorin Oakenshield was his nephew’s boss. _I’m here about Frodo_ , Bilbo meant to say. “You live in Dale?” is what came out.

“No, I just work here and I live on a cloud.”  
Bilbo met the sarcasm with a hard look. “Once you thought you were going to live on a mountain.”

“In a mountain.” The man-bun is ridiculous Thorin decides and he lets his hair loose. The feeling of his hair falling down reminded him of a Pantene ad. So Bilbo wouldn’t see his blush, Thorin moved behind the counter. “Um…do you want a pastry?"

Bilbo looked different. Of course, they were both eleven years older and Bilbo wasn’t the same glasses-toting, Rimbaud-quoting folk-music-advocate he had been in college. Thorin for certain was not the same Architecture major. There was something different about Bilbo, though, Thorin couldn’t quite place it—not the hair, not the clothes, not even the attitude…

“No.” Bilbo crossed his arms, his head held haughtily. “The pastries here are dry. I’m here about Frodo.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Frodo makes the pastries.”

“Not the point,” Bilbo said quickly. Thorin hid his smile. “What right do you have to yell at children? You, an adult?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss this with someone who’s not a parent.” That was a lie, but Thorin really didn’t want to talk about it.

Bilbo huffed again. “I am.” Guardian, parent, same thing legally.

“What?” Bilbo made an alarmed face at Thorin’s screech. Frodo’s dark curly hair and blue eyes flashed through Thorin’s mind. He choked. “Christ—is that—is that my son, Bilbo?"

Bilbo stared at him like he was genuinely questioning his sanity. “Does he look like your son?”

“The-the hair and the eyes—“ Thorin sputtered. If Thorin hadn’t been so panicked, he could have done the math and realized that was impossible.

“Oh, great.” Bilbo threw his hands up in the air, clearly exasperated. “Right, you have a monopoly on thick dark hair and mesmerizing blue eyes, okay.”

“Just answer my question!”

“My God, he is not your son.” Bilbo paused for a minute, his head tilted towards the ground. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled and quiet.  
“He’s not even my son. He’s my nephew. His parents passed away a while ago.”

“Oh.” Thorin stopped moving, his breaths regulating. Bilbo still had his head tilted towards the ground and Thorin could finally pinpoint the difference in this version of Bilbo. He was sad. “My apologies. Ahem, for everything.”

“It’s alright.”

“Frodo’s a good kid.”

“I know that.” Bilbo looked up at him, still a bit mad, still a bit exasperated, but now a bit amused. “You really thought he could be your son?”

“Shut up."

“He’s fourteen years old.”

“Shut _up_.”

“You told me you were good at math.”

“You told me I had mesmerizing eyes,” Thorin countered.

Bilbo quickly changed the subject. “I’m here about Frodo. You absolutely ruined him, he was crying when he got him, this is summer internship, and unless he burned the place down, what on earth could he do to warrant someone yelling at him?”

“I didn’t mean to make him cry,” Thorin said. “He just—some pastries went wrong, I commented on it.”

“You compared them to duck penises.”

“Well, the resemblance was there.”

“I thought the bakery would be good for him,” Bilbo said, more to himself than Thorin. “He’s a sensitive kid, he can’t help coach soccer teams, he can’t shadow a doctor, but a bakery, a bakery is a nice safe warm place and it’s a good fit for a sensitive guy like him, then you have to blow it all to hell with your loudmouth and Neanderthal thinking patterns—“

“Neanderthal thinking patterns?!”

“—and overreactions to everything.”

“Listen, my job is to teach Frodo a work ethic. That’s what I’m doing. Sometimes he’s going to fuck up. He has to deal with that.”

“Yeah, but do you have to make him cry?”

Thorin threw his hands up. “What do you want me to say?”

An apology? Bilbo bit his lip. He knew Thorin. Apologies did not come. They stood in silence, the bakery half-lit, the wind battering the door and windows outside.

Bilbo didn’t like the silence. It made him think too much, and standing in front of Thorin, looking at Thorin, he couldn’t help but think of Thorin. How it ended. No inconvenience, no drama, he had said. Bilbo shook, fuming again. He launched his tirade a second time. In all honesty, this had become less about Frodo and more an excuse to yell at Thorin, which, in all honesty, he had been waiting ages to do.

Thorin had more questions, most not fit to ask your intern’s guardian when they’re lecturing you about yelling at said intern. He was still curious about New Bilbo, Bilbo-with-a-ward, Bilbo living in the countryside. Well, that last one wasn’t a huge surprise. He was a creature of comfort. Thorin smirked.

It didn’t go unnoticed. “What? Is this funny to you? It’s not funny to me. Frodo is an impressionable young man—“

“Underhill?” Thorin cut him off.

Bilbo deflated. “Well, um, yes,” he started babbling and Thorin’s smirk deepened. Bilbo had never been able to put aside manners for long. “It’s a bit of a long story, but when I got published, apparently alliterate names sound like a children’s author, so they wanted something a little more mysterious and edgier and, well, my house is under a hill and it still had that connection to Baggins, so I liked that, and then when Frodo came, I mean, he’d already been through so much, and I asked him and he wanted us to have the same name and so…yeah…” Bilbo trailed off, blushing a bit.

“You’re published then?”

The blush deepened and Thorin didn’t need an answer. There was that proud glint in Bilbo’s eyes, the one he never let anyone see because he thought it was vain to be proud, and now Bilbo’s eyes were averted but there was a small smile on his face.

“Congratulations.” Thorin leaned on the counter, aware of how small his bakery was, how his plans to greater and better things never panned out and now he was yelling at interns for daring to have lives outside of this. “Wow, I never knew.”

Bilbo looked at him. It was hard to decipher. “What did you expect, me to call you up? I don’t even have your number.”

“Anymore.” The word slipped out of Thorin before he could stop it.

Bilbo’s blush turned from pride to something angrier. “Yes, well, that’s not my fault.”

“It never is.” Thorin’s head was dizzy. What was he doing? What was he saying? This is Bilbo and something in Thorin was waking up, ready to fight more than interns and poor tippers.

“E-e-excuse me?” Bilbo was baffled, mouth open, sputtering slightly and swiveling from side to side like he did when he got nervous.

“Why couldn’t you just say you overreacted?” Teenagers passed the bakery window, not stopping to give its half-lit interior a passing glance. It was a Friday night and there were more important things than pastries, and better places to go than bakeries. Thorin’s heart was restless, fluttering like a butterfly crashing against a cage, desperate to be saved. He’d wanted to ask that for ages. He had asked it, over dead phones and empty bottles and the shower drain, as he watched the water circle with the white foam of shampoo and soap, his head down, because it never made sense to him.

“Why couldn’t you apologize?” Bilbo countered hotly, but there was a wounded look in his eye.

“Apologize for what?” Thorin’s hands were gripping the counter with white knuckles but he didn’t notice. Bilbo had stayed in the same place since he came in, half-way between the counter and the door. One false word and he could be out, out of here forever and if he wanted to, he could avoid Thorin forever. One word away.

Bilbo stared at him. “You’ve got to be kidding—“

“I was a freshman in college,” Thorin said. “It was the first month. That’s how kids are!”

“That’s not how I was. That’s not how I am.”

Thorin hesitated. This was true. Bilbo was not like other people. Bilbo did not hook up with random people, Bilbo did not hit on random people, Bilbo did not go around fucking other people unless he thought it would lead to a serious relationship.

They’d met the second night of college. Thorin had gone out with his floormates, Bilbo had stayed in chatting with two of his mates and in some twist of fate, Thorin and his friends got back from smoking pot just as Bilbo and his friends walked out. Somehow the groups knew each other. They chatted for a bit outside the dorm building in the warm summer air, and Thorin saw Bilbo and thought he was beautiful. When everyone else went inside, they stayed out talking. They talked until eight in the morning.

“I wanted you.” Thorin’s voice was throaty, still hung up on the memory of that first night, that immediate connection. _I’ve never told anyone this_ , Thorin had said, _I don’t know why I’m telling you_ , before launching into his dream about rebuilding Erebor, the legendary hotel that had been burned down by a mafia family.

Bilbo paused. The eyes locked onto Thorin’s were brown and sad. Bilbo was thinking about the same night too. And the nights after, the midnight walks full of bantering and laughing and sharing and _closeness before_ —

“You wrecked it,” Bilbo said simply. What else could he say? “I’m sorry, this was totally inappropriate. I came to voice concerns about Frodo, I have and now I’ll go. Good day."

 _It’s night time_. Thorin couldn’t help rolling his eyes. Bagginses and their manners. Bilbo was heading to the door.  
“I’m sorry,” Thorin blurted. Bilbo’s back stilled. Outside, the lampposts flickered to life and the light caught on Bilbo’s honey-blonde hair. “I was an absolute idiot. You were the one I wanted. I’m a dick.”

Bilbo didn’t reply.

Thorin rushed on. Words, words, he had to find the right words. Wrong words and Bilbo would be gone, out the door, the wind slamming it shut behind him and that goddamn annoying bell would ding and they’d never see each other again unless Bilbo wanted to. Bilbo was a professional avoider. “I’m such a dick. I thought I could have it both, I could have you and everything I wanted with you and I could still fuck people on the side because I was eighteen and dumb and you were a virgin and I didn’t think—I thought it would take time and then when we did—I just didn’t know how to tell you,” he faltered. “How could I say, I’m so happy with you, I’m glad we slept together, also I’ve been fucking people on this side this whole time?”

Nothing from Bilbo. Fuck. Thorin stepped away from the counter. He’d fucked it up a second time. Not standing to watch Bilbo leave, Thorin walked into the back room, groaning to himself. How on earth could he face Frodo on Monday? Maybe he should bake himself, Sylvia Plath style—fun fact he learned from Bilbo—and then he could avoid Thranduil as well. It’s a much nicer alternative than trying to make sugar-free, gluten-free, nut-free, dairy-free icing.

 

Thorin paced around the back room, kicking at the trashcan in the corner. Frodo’s pastries were still in there. They looked sad. _I’m the duck penis_ , Thorin thought glumly, hoisting himself onto the counter. Wincing, he realized he’d sat on a whisk. “Oh, fuck it all,” he muttered, throwing the whisk to the ground.

The bell above the door hadn’t dinged yet. Why did Bilbo walk with the speed of a sloth? Thorin wanted him gone so he could finally tear off the ridiculous apron, close up and walk around the city looking at buildings and reliving what an idiot he’d been back in the day.

“Thorin?”

Thorin froze. It didn’t compute. He turned to the doorway. Indeed, Bilbo was standing there, a little flushed, a little apprehensive, but not looking like a kettle that’s been on the stove too long. That was a plus. _Dear God, he’s going to lecture me again._

“Do you want to go to dinner sometime?” Bilbo said. The words came out too rushed, too hot, so unlike Bilbo’s well-planned sentences. He was a writer, he cared about the words. Thorin suspected even his tirades were planned in advance.

“What?”

Bilbo shrugged. “We’re all idiots, especially in college. I’m an idiot for holding a grudge. You’re the bigger idiot, though. Dinner?”  
“Don’t you hate me?”

“You apologized. It was ages ago. Let’s not be stupid and immature grudge-holders. Of course, you’re still an incredibly rude man who makes children cry.”

“Fourteen is not a child.”

Bilbo bristled. “Fourteen is not a professional baker, either.”

Thorin conceded with a tilt of his head. After all, he didn’t know how to work the espresso machine. Not that Bilbo had to know that. “Right. So. Dinner?”

“Yes.” Bilbo smiled that billion-watt smile Thorin remembered from so long ago. “I’m very curious as to how the most promising architect major  
became a baker.”

Thorin returned the smile. “Sure.”

“Tomorrow at Beorn’s?"

“Oh, God, is that the vegan place?"

“Are you still against vegetables? I’ve told you a thousand times, red meat clogs arteries.”

“I’m not going to have a heart attack.”

“Well, if you do, don’t call me.”

“I wouldn’t anyways, you’re terrible under pressure.”

“I’m not.” Bilbo crossed his arms, before wilting. “Well, ahem, actually—“

Thorin smirked. “I thought so. Dinner at Beorn’s. It sounds lovely.”

“Fantastic.”


End file.
